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The mellow, round notes echoed through the tunnel, even reaching up the stairs before being trampled to death by the descending crowd. The sound issued from across the platform: a black man in a frayed white shirt, breathing into his trumpet like it was the most important thing in the world.

Few of the throng around him paid much attention. Just to the side of his open instrument case, a young man in ripped jeans slowly danced with himself, while behind the trumpet player stood an older man – perhaps transfixed by the music, perhaps just looking for a place to rest. That was all.

There was more interest in the trumpet player on the other side of the platform. A small crowd, perhaps less wary with the player’s coin-filled case out of reach, watched enraptured, some bopping a bit as they listened, some resembling attentive statues. A diverse group: a young man in an impeccable suit, with large black shoes and the world’s smallest pager; next to him an older man, a Realtor, with a suit that might have been impeccable years ago and a blue hat that can only be called improbable; an Asian woman, her hair dyed red and her arm wrapped with the strap of a miniscule purse. A hip Rollerblader. A mother shushing her small son.

The trumpet player was gone when I came back through the station. In his place sat a senior citizen from China, a man who looked like he stepped out of a Tai Chi videotape. No trumpet for him. Instead, the old gent played a graichek, a fishing-pole like violin looped with a pair of strings.

His music wasn’t as sweet as the first’s, but as I walked by, I dropped a few coins in his hat, payment, perhaps, for the melody that had echoed through my head all afternoon.

posted at 4:30 AM by Timothy J. Gibbons | link